


Stolen Lullaby

by RococoDragon



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Altmer - Freeform, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Extramarital Affairs, Minor Character Death, Multi, original altmer characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RococoDragon/pseuds/RococoDragon
Summary: Estormo could do magic. He could make a weak spark light up his fingertip and once, he made a tiny flame appear in the palm of his hand. His mother had been overjoyed. Whirling him around the room and exclaiming how proud his father would be of him if he only knew what a talented son he had. “The blood of mighty warriors and mages runs through your veins, my Storm,” she had told him, holding him close. “Heating your blood and filling you with the magic of your ancestors. One day, he will see and you will stand by his side with pride.”***Fate can be as cruel as it is kind. It shapes us and moulds us with life's experiences into the people we come to be. This is one such story of how the choices of himself and others lead one Altmer on an emotional journey of self-discovery and the importance of chasing your own dreams.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Stolen Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a pre-story to an ongoing modern collaboration that will be shared in time. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed exploring the modern life of my most beloved Skyrim NPC.

Love. It brings joy, comfort, pain and sorrow. And at the height of its folly, it can make one do foolish things. Elante, a humble servant, was no stranger to love. You might say that she was addicted to the rush of intoxicating emotions that love grants.

In her century of life, she had flitted from lover to lover, seeking the thrill of being wanted. Of being adored. When the initial high would fade, as it so often does with the passage of time, she would move to the next. A butterfly on sunset wings seeking the most tempting of blossoms. With each new man, she swore to the Eight that he was the one. Her true love, superior to the rest. But never was this declaration as heartfelt as it was when she met Stormorin Loraethian. 

Handsome and powerful, the Battlereeve was everything she had ever dreamed and from the first moment his sharp golden eyes studied her, she knew her heart would never stray. The attraction was mutual and within days of meeting the pair had begun a torrid love affair, escaping into each other’s arms whenever fate granted them the opportunity. With the attention of the man she adored, Elante had never before felt so alive.

There was only one thorn in her fantasy bed of roses. Lady Miranil Loraethian, the proud and beautiful wife of Stormorin and the sole reason why Elante found herself in his household at all. 

Elante was a lady’s maid, tasked with waiting on her mistress’ every need regarding her dressing and preparations. Hours were spent each day and night fussing over the lady’s hair and draping gowns over the body that warmed Stormorin’s bed. It was a bitter seed that planted itself in Elante’s mind, spreading pain throughout her joy with every touch, knowing her hands could be following a trail that her lovers took when he was not with her. Elante bit her tongue and guarded her eyes in her employment, purely for the sake of Stormorin. As much as she couldn’t bear to imagine him writhing in the darkness with his wife, it was agony to imagine never seeing him again.

And so she stayed and she suffered, snatching the moments of bliss Stormorin threw her way until the big announcement. Miranil was with child, 

A dagger to her heart would have been an easier pain to endure. Before the swell of her mistress’ belly began to show Elante could convince herself that Stormorin denied himself his marital rights. That he was disgusted by the woman he swore he didn’t love and sought intimacy only with her. The miracle of new life shone a damning light onto his lies. 

Oblivious to her husband’s extra-marital activities, Miranil spoke of nothing but her child as Elante dressed her and saw to her needs. Proudly declaring that she knew it to be a son, an heir to the distinguished legacy of the Loraethian family. 

_"Stormorin is, of course, thrilled beyond measure,” she simpered, a perfectly manicured hand tracing the subtle bump rising from her abdomen. “This child will no doubt be stamped with the same strengths of character as his kin. The seed is very strong in their lines, you know.”_

_“They are a great family, my lady.”_

_“Truly illustrious,” Miranil continued, turning slightly to study her figure in the full-length mirror before her. She smirked at her reflection as her hands followed the changing curves of her body. “He has already written to his father and brother to tell them of the news, assuring them that the child will follow his family tradition. I do wish I could see Lord Stormaeus’ face when he receives it.”_

_Curiosity lifted Elante’s eyes from her work and she warily asked, “tradition, my lady?”_

_"How silly of me, of course, you would not have any reason to know. For generations, the Loraethians have named their eldest sons for the power of a storm. As you might be aware, their bloodline is potent with Magicka. It heats their tempers and makes them formidable in battle. My son will grow to be a warrior like his father and grandfather before him and will carry their name with pride.”_

_"Blessed by Auri-el himself, my lady.”_

The words of loyalty and reverence were acrid drops of poison on Elante’s tongue and she was sure she could feel the veil of sincerity she wore slipping with every falsehood that passed her lips. 

Stormorin’s child. An infallible anchor cementing his connection with the Lady Loraethian, not a forgettable piece of parchment declaring their nuptials but living, breathing evidence that for all he said, he was committed to her. She would give birth to his heir and Elante...what would happen to her? Would she be forgotten, cast aside amidst the waves of joy and celebration that accompany a baby’s arrival? Or kept to watch over the bliss of new parents, filling Stormorin’s spare moments as escapism of his true life, one she could never truly be a part of.

These thoughts whirled through her mind behind the neutral facade she wore about the manor. She could not be thrown away to live as a shadow of herself that she knew she would be without Stormorin’s love. No matter what happened between him and his wife this was the only truth she could find comfort in. He loved her, she knew it as she knew the sun rose in the East and she kept the knowledge clutched to her heart with steeled tenacity. Her family were not a long line of notable warriors, having fallen from grace generations before, but that did not make her any less capable of fighting for what she wanted and what she believed to be her right to love and happiness. Elante had not lost. The rules had simply changed.

With Miranil pregnant Stormorin was shunned from her bed for the baby’s safety, leaving him free to pursue his desires with Elante in the midnight hours. Soft words and brazen encouragement go far when a proud man is in good spirits and so she shoved aside the enmity of the situation and honed her charm, ensuring she was a beacon of carefree sweetness in the turmoil of responsibilities that ruled his life. 

Under the spell of lust and joy, it had been easy to distract him as she sipped the vial he always insisted on after their trysts. The potion secretly burned beneath her tongue and she flashed him a coquettish smile before gracefully dropping to her knees. A bow of her head, the slip of a handkerchief and she was replacing the acrid taste of contraception herbs with the combined musk of their arousal, the heat of Stormorin’s seed unaffected in the depths of her womb. 

And so it went until Elante was sure of her success. But personal elation has a way of blinding you to the harsh realities of life and the truths that you close your eyes tightly against. 

The Lady Miranil Loraethian was four months into her pregnancy when her husband’s mistress pulled him aside to inform him that she was to bear him another, a brother for the child that was yet to be born. Elante’s eyes shone bright with her enthusiasm as she informed her lover of her pregnancy. So great was her excitement that she didn’t at first notice the thunderous expression that darkened his face, or the tension in which his fists clenched at his sides. 

_“What have you done?”_

_The tone did little to sever her optimism and she spilled forth her delight against his chest, her arms thrown around his neck in an embrace._

_“Is this not wonderful, my Lord? He will be as handsome and brave as his father, I know it!”’_

_“He will be a bastard!” Stormorin growled, wrenching her free of his person and slamming her against the wall, his hand cold steel on her shoulder. “Do you hate me so much that you seek to ruin me, is that it?”_

_“What? No! I thought you would be thrilled. Stormorin, I love you! With all my heart, I could never hate you. No more than I could hate the sun that gives us life or - or our child that I carry. As you love me.”_

_"I never loved you. You were a willing body, nothing more.”_

_“That is not true! I know you love me! No matter how your tongue denies it your eyes speak the truth. You cannot hide what is in your heart.”_

_“And I am to take your word that it is mine? It could be the butcher’s son for all I know.”_

_Anger flared amidst her heartbreak, the shattered pieces of her heart kindling to the blaze fueled by his callousness and she tried to shake free of her his grasp, her futile efforts tightening his hold._

_"I have slept with no other since the day I arrived here!” She snapped. “I swear by the Eight I have been yours alone. This child is a Loraethian, half brother to your eldest and every much a part of you as he will be. You say you do not love me, but I know that one of us is speaking lies and by Auri-el it is not I.”_

_Golden eyes burned into burnished bronze, searching and searing her in silent interrogation. Each second was an eternity hanging heavily between them, until finally, Stormorin spoke. The lips that she had once cherished now cleaved her spirit in two, simultaneously crushing her with hope and desolation._

_“You must leave,” He told her. The anger had quieted in his voice, subdued to a gravel husk that chilled her more than his rage. “I will not acknowledge your child.”_

_“Stormorin!”_

_“Nor shall I turn you into the cold. I am not foolish enough to believe your passion would not be turned against me as a weapon, so I propose an agreement. In exchange for your silence, you may have use of a house of your own and an allowance that should see you comfortable. If you refuse this offer or speak out against my terms, I will withdraw all support immediately and deny any accusations you make.”_

_"Will you visit? Will I still see you?”_

_"Never.”_

Cut off from the man she loved she grew heavy with child and forlorn with heartbreak. The chasm in her chest was only partially filled with the love she felt for the new life growing within her, her one true connection and reminder for all she and Stormorin had shared. 

Stormorin had been true to his word and her accommodations were modest and comfortable. Every three months she was visited by the only other soul Stormorin trusted with the true reason for her exile, the captain of his house guard, Calien Thromore who would meet her at her door with gold and guarded sympathy.

This visit was the only correspondence she enjoyed with the Loreathian household. Her frequent letters went ignored, languishing in Stormorin’s desk unread. Her request of Calien for news or word of his master, possibility of a change of heart, was brusquely silenced. 

Blinded by rejection, spurred on by loneliness, Elante fell into the arms of any that would have her. A flood of nameless faces where she could close her eyes and imagine she was embraced by her estranged lover once again. 

*** Four years later ***

Stormorin didn’t know what it was that had made him open the letter after all this time. For years he had been content with the basic reports fed back to him of Elante’s welfare and, later, that of her child. That she had food, clothing and was in want of nothing material satisfied him enough. Not once had he asked of the boy’s likeness. From the expression on Calien’s face on returning from his first visit following the birth, it was clear to Stormorin how much the child must resemble him, possibly even more so than his heir, sleeping soundly in his nursery in the Loraethian Manor. 

Time passed and yet he could not bring himself to read or destroy the letters that arrived. Their flow had been regular at first, trickling down in frequency, and then erratic. Sometimes five in a single week, then nothing for months. If he ever wondered what stilled or spurred her quill, he did not show it. They were received and then hidden away, silently judging him from their casket of mahogany. 

There had been nothing spectacular or unusual of the most recent envelope that had crossed his desk. The cream parchment was scrawled with Elante’s handwriting, the ink blotted in parts but that was not unusual. She had never been the most cautious writer. Picking up the letter opener he toyed with the small blade, turning it around in his fingers and contemplating his sudden curiosity. It irritated him that she should make him feel anything. And with that ire he took out his annoyance on the mail, slicing easily through the seal and spreading the letter far rougher than he needed to. He needed to put a stop to this once and for all. She had his money, she had no claim to his thoughts.

A clatter on his desk drew his attention to a silver locket that had fallen from the pages. Sighing to himself, he picked it up, examining the craftsmanship of the piece. A delicate design of filigree encircled a moonstone set into the centre. The embellishment twisted and curled upon itself, tiny flowers blooming from between artistic leaves, reminding him of his gardens that had been Elante’s favourite place to meet with him. Scoffing at the sentimentality and frivolous expenditure he opened the latch and felt his breath catch in his throat. From the left side, his own face stared back at him. On the right it was Elante, cradling their son in her arms, smiling demurely at the viewer. The child was a tiny thing, barely a few months, bundled in a white blanket that matched the snow of the wisps on his tiny head. Stormorin didn’t need to search the chubby features to find the similarities. They were looking back at him clear as day. The hair colour, the angled golden eyes, the turn of the mouth, the sweep of the nose. If he hadn’t known better he would have thought it was a picture of his own infancy he held in his hands. 

He shut the locket sharply and turned his attention to the contents of the letter. It began with an outpouring of love, followed by the details of their son’s attributes. How fast he was growing, how clever, the little mannerisms he showed that matched his father’s. And then the tone changed. The enthusiasm disappeared from her words and the sentences became resigned and flat, as though the hope that had buoyed the writer had completely abandoned her halfway through. 

_It has been many years, my love, since I have looked upon the beauty of your face in my waking hours. But the same cannot be said of my dreams where you visit me each night. Do dreams continue when we enter the eternal sleep? I can only hope they do for I can think of no greater paradise for my mortal soul than being forever in your arms._

_Whether by a broken heart or more violent means, I fear I shall have the answer soon._

_I ask but one thing of you, as selfish as it is of me when you have given me so much, most of all the perfect son who reminds me of you in every smile. Please take care of him. Keep him safe and guide him through a world of dreams and dread._

_All my love,_

_Elante_

The letter crumpled and tore in his fist. The hands that had ended many an enemy life now similarly destroyed the words of his mistress in retaliation to the guilt and anger that writhed in his gut. The manipulations burned fiercely in his mind, scorching the memories of warm bodies and soft voices that resided in the depths of his memory.

“Wretched fool. What have you done?”

From his desk the locket stared up at him, candlelight glinting off the silver. The circular cut of the moonstone a sentry to his torment. Crossly the jewellery and remains of the letter were swept into his drawer, locked away and out of sight like the emotions they stirred. Rising to his feet Stormorin snatched up his gloves and shouted orders for his horse to be saddled. 

Elante needed to be reminded that the comfort she enjoyed was not some sympathetic folly on his part but a mercy that could be severed as easily as it was offered. 

*******

Estormo would never forget the first time he saw his father.

It had been a clear day. The type of day where the sun wishes to show off its splendour, uncaring of the horrors it was throwing its harsh light upon. Even after two hundred years he still remembered being that terrified little boy, blinking at the sudden sunshine spilling over his face. Each blink had made his lashes stick together, blotting out the light and leaving him in the faux darkness of closed eyes. The blood had been everywhere. Thick and red. It had all been red. His clothes, his silver curls, the bedroom floor. His mother. 

He had tried to wake her up after the monster had gone. Calling her name and stroking her face as she had done to him every morning of his life, a sweet lullaby on her lips. His mother had never sung him lullabies at night. They were reserved for heralding the morning when she was relaxed and happy and loved him as he knew she did. The monster was never there in the mornings. Free of the looming shadow, Estormo would hold his mother’s hand and let her voice lift his spirits, banishing the demons that haunted his slumber with her words of magic and hope.

Estormo could do magic. He could make a weak spark light up his fingertip and once, he made a tiny flame appear in the palm of his hand. His mother had been overjoyed. Whirling him around the room and exclaiming how proud his father would be of him if he only knew what a talented son he had. _“The blood of mighty warriors and mages runs through your veins, my Storm,” she had told him, holding him close. “Heating your blood and filling you with the magic of your ancestors. One day, he will see and you will stand by his side with pride.”_

A weak smile at the memory of his mother’s happiness played along pale lips and he hoped that the magic that made her so excited would be enough for his words. Gingerly getting to his feet he crossed the room to look out of the window, furrowing his brow at the stars and the clouds that dashed across the moon. It was bedtime and bedtime was not the time for lullabies. Even so, his mother must wake. 

Padding back to her side he just as carefully sat down and softly stroked the strawberry blonde waves of his mother’s hair, careful to avoid the injury to her temple.

“Mama? Baby Storm sing you wake, mama?”

There was nothing but silence as a reply so Estormo began to sing. The metallic taste hanging in the air burned his tongue, making him trip over the words he knew by heart, but still, he carried on. He didn’t stop until he got to the end, the part where he would clap and cheer and throw his arms around his mother and she would pepper him with kisses. There were no kisses in the darkness. Nothing but a sad little boy and his dead mother.

For three days he remained curled in his mother’s stiffening arms. Venturing away from her only when his thirst drew him to sip at the brown bottle the monster had left behind. He coughed and spluttered, choking on the fire slipping down his throat. Fresh tears of pain welled in his eyes, trailing down his face in rivulets of sorrow as he shoved the bottle away and scrambled back to the maternal comfort in the middle of the floor. 

Sleep had come, on and off, filled with dreams dominated by monsters that made him bolt upright, screaming in terror. Towards the end, he found it easier to try and stay awake, fighting desperately against the lull of slumber that dragged him down. Voices filled his head as he battled. That of his own, wondering if he had been bad and was being punished. The sweet lilt of his mother, telling stories of princes and dragons. And then the Monster. He shuddered and covered his ears, but the voice grew louder, yelling the mean things that had made his mother cry and Estormo hide in fear. 

“Go ‘way!” Estormo shouted out into the silence, his voice hoarse with dehydration. “Go ‘way! Storm been good! He been good!”

With his hands clasped tight on his head, blocking out his world, the child didn’t hear the knocking on the door, or the creak as it swung open and footsteps entered. It wasn’t until movement caught the corner of his eye that he realised he was no longer alone. 

“By the gods...Elante.”

*******

His little body, broken and bruised, had felt so much more fragile in the arms of the stoic Altmer, at the time a stranger to him, their blood connection meaning nothing to the little boy who was being carried from his childhood home and the nightmare within. The soft leather of the older mer’s robes was warm on Estormo’s cheek and subconsciously he found himself snuggling closer, his ear searching for the heartbeat that drummed beneath the broad chest. It was a connection to another living being that he embraced. His instincts, simplified in their fear, needing to reach out to life after the forced company of death. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
